I Am the Reaper
by Dunno12345
Summary: To keep my sanity, I repeat what I know of myself, in my head like a prayer. "My name is Bellamy Blake," I say. "Brother to Octavia Blake, Son of Aurora Blake. I was born on the Ark, but came to the ground to protect my sister..." Bellamy has been taken by Mount Weather, but it isn't for his blood. Cage wants to turn him into a weapon. A warrior. A reaper.
1. Introduction

I AM the Reaper.

All things with heedful hook

Silent I gather.

Pale roses touched with the spring,

Tall corn in summer,

Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms—

Reaping, still reaping—

All things with heedful hook

Timely I gather.

I am the Sower.

All the unbodied life

Runs through my seed-sheet.

Atom with atom wed,

Each quickening the other,

Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless.

Ceaselessly sowing,

Life, incorruptible life,

Flows from my seed-sheet.

Maker and breaker,

I am the ebb and the flood,

Here and Hereafter,

Sped through the tangle and coil

Of infinite nature,

Viewless and soundless I fashion all being.

Taker and giver,

I am the womb and the grave,

The Now and the Ever.

\- I Am the Reaper, by William Ernest Henley 


	2. I Am the Reaper

There's nothing here. Nothing except the dark. Nothing except the echo of screams coming from me that makes me think I'm dying.

Maybe I am.

I doubt that, though, because every once in awhile, the blackness in my vision clears and I can make out a room of stone. My cell. My prison. It doesn't last long, though, and soon something picks my neck and I'm tossed back into a world where I am both predator and prey, killer and victim.

Two parts of me clash against each other, folding into the other like breaking waves. Instinct and humanity, and I'm caught between their rage of war. One side tells me to give up. To embrace this hunger and let it consume me. To deprive me whatever remnant of a soul I have left. But the other begs me not to. Because if I do, there will be no forgiveness for me here.

It's maddening, so to keep my sanity, I repeat what I know of myself, in my head like a prayer.

 _My name is Bellamy Blake,_ I whisper in my mind. _Brother to Octavia Blake, Son of Aurora Blake. I was born on the Ark, but came to the ground to protect my sister..._

I say it over and over. Drill it into every part of my head. Flip it again and again like a coin. In addition, I struggle to get some grip on my surroundings. I become painfully aware of the hard table beneath me, bleeding cold into my body. I am hypersensitive to the sweat chilling my forehead and spine, that causes goosebumps to jump up over my exposed torso.

I look over at my hands, strapped to my sides. They are dirty and encrusted in blood, but they don't feel like mine. They belong to someone else, to the thing inside me that's lying in wait for the door to open.

I already know what will happen before it does; a man dressed in a pressed suit and tie will walk in. The heels of his black shoes will click softly in his wake as he guides across the floor towards the table. He will stop in front of me, and peer over me as if I am a trophy of his. A pawn on his chess board. I don't know his name, but you don't have to know something personal of someone to want them dead.

And most of all, I know what will be clutched in his hand. It'll be a syringe, filled with scarlet liquid that my entire body would willingly die for. Yet I will tell myself that I won't want it. That I'll be calm and I won't give in to the hunger.

I tell myself every time.

But I never listen.

And as the events play out exactly as I knew they would before my eyes, I tell myself again. _The last time was enough,_ I think. _I won't want it again._

But then I see the syringe, and my vision goes as red as the liquid inside it.

The binds on my ankles and wrists dig into my skin as my body convulses and I try to hold on to my earlier words. Of who I am and why I'm here, but they are lost to the hunger. I need the syringe. I need it as much as the air in my lungs.

 _I must have it._ Right now. _Right now._

There's a loud roar in the room and only dimly do I acknowledge that It's coming from me.

The man in the suit smiles, revealing a row of pearly-white teeth that seem to glow unnaturally in the low light. He teases the syringe above me and I claw for it in vain, feeling as my chafed skin breaks and a different kind of red spills from me. It doesn't matter, though. Nothing matters except that syringe. It's the only thing that will end the hunger.

His eyes blaze with pride, like a parent praising a child. "You're strong," he says in a diplomatic voice, but it's not emotionless which somehow makes it worse. It tells me he's human enough to feel, but not human enough to feel the right thing.

"Good," he nods approvingly."You'll need that strength."

Then something pricks my neck and whatever hatred I feel towards the man melts from me as the fiery hunger disappears and I fall into something as close to peace this world has to offer.

* * *

I don't know how much time passes. A day. A year. Maybe I'm dying. The hunger eating at me from the inside out is enough to convince me of it.

I blink, up at the single light hanging from above. Carefully, I pull on my restraints and feel a lace of pain spike up my arms. I look at them.

Bloody. My wrists are bloody. I wonder if they'll leave scars. I wonder if I'll stay alive long enough for them to.

I force my eyes away from my mangled wrist and to the lit ceiling. Taking a shaky breath, I repeat what I know.

 _My name is Bellamy Blake. Brother to Octavia Blake. Son of Aurora Blake. I was born on the Ark._

I say it over and over, until I can practically recite it backwards. Today I don't let it go. I won't give in to the hunger that seems worse today than it did the last time. It's become a physical pain now. Hot and scorching, lighting my insides on fire.

The door opens.

I don't look at the man who will be there. Instead, I try to drudge up some memory of my sister, but her image swims in my unshed tears.

The suited stranger speaks, shaking the syringe in his hand. "I have something for you," he taunts.

And just like that, I forget the impression of the girl in my head. I forget my mantra and I turn into something I have no control over. The pain gets worse and I pull on the restraints, reopening my wounds. I don't feel any of it. The only thing I see in the world is red liquid.

In one swift movement it's at my neck and the creature inside me is subdued. That darkness returns and this time, I don't even try to fight it. On the contrary, I welcome it.

* * *

I hate the timelessness. I don't know how much of it has gone by or what I've missed when my eyes finally crack open again and I instantly notice the pain coursing through me, turning my blood to ash.

Maybe I'm dying.

I should care more if I am, but I'm not. I actually feel disappointment expand over me once I start to feel a little more lucid and I know for certain I'm alive.

I close my eyes. _My name is Bellamy Blake,_ I recite. _Brother to Octavia Blake. Son of Aurora Blake._ I don't know where I was born, but it feels very far away.

I have the words on repeat for as long as possible, until the door opens again. This time, I order myself to fight. I am _not_ weak. I won't die here. But when I see the liquid, my strength dissolves and my will degenerates into something as frail as paper. Easy to tear.

I lied; this isn't the time I fight it. This is the time I don't even try.

* * *

 _My name is Bellamy Blake. Brother to Octavia Blake._

I'm playing the words before I even open my eyes. I don't care what these people take from me-my freedom, my life-they will not take my sister. The memories of her are mine and if they want them, they'll have to rip apart my mind to get them.

I'm taken aback though when it isn't the suited man that comes to me today. It's someone dressed in a body suit, with a mask over their face. They look otherworldly and I know with every fiber in my being I don't want them to touch me.

But here I get no say. I see the flash of a syringe and the fire licking at my veins erupts, into an all consuming agony. I'm ready for it. I wait for it.

But it doesn't come. What comes is a bright shaft of light and a sound that threatens to split my head open. The hunger diminishes and in its place falls something impossibly worse. The cry coming from the light shatters my eardrums, raking down my skull like nails on a board. I can feel my bones breaking but it soon doesn't matter because the flames will just reduce them to dust anyway. There must be blood everywhere. I must be painted on the stone walls around me and I know this must be death.

A second later, the sound vanishes, and I'm cruelly left breathing. I pry my lids back and find I'm not covered in my own blood. How, I don't know. But what I do know is that I will do whatever these otherworldly people want if it means not experiencing it again.

* * *

 _My name is Bellamy Blake._

That's my first thought. My only thought, circling alone in my head. It feels insufficient, more of a fact than a tangible truth because I'm a stranger to the person its tied to. What I am. Where I am. Why I'm here. The slots next to the questions are blank leaving a gaping hole in my mind. Is there someone waiting for me? I don't know. Then again, perhaps it's better this way; at least I have no one to miss.

To occupy my time, I count the seconds until the suits' inevitable arrival.

 _Forty-two_.

But it isn't the suits that greet me. It's that man again, the one with the impeccable attire and sleek, black shoes. He is profession personified.

That usual smile lights up his face, but I'm not looking at it. My gaze is locked on the syringe, and I yearn for its numbness-the relief. I don't want to be in this world anymore. I ache for the shadows.

As if reading my mind, the man shakes his head, but the action does nothing to disturb his combed hair. "I know you want it, but this time you'll have to work for it." His smile turns into a wolfish grin. "See, I think you're my favorite, but there's another that's caught my attention and I can't seem to decide between the two of you. So I thought I'd let you prove it to me yourself."

He raises something and I don't even have a second to prepare for the pain the screaming device brings. I go limp, and my insides boil. I can't feel my body or register one of the suits that suddenly appears and starts undoing my binds. The pain in my head makes me curl into myself, until I'm in a fetal position. There isn't enough room on the table, though and I fall to the ground. I don't feel the impact.

In the corner of my eye, I see someone else. Another man. He isn't suited and wears no mask. He's bedraggled, with matted hair and bloodshot eyes. He has his own hands over his head and I know the sound is hurting him, too.

The suited stranger steps between the two of us and I watch in mute agony as he lowers the red syringe to the stone.

He retreats to the door, still holding the terrible device. Then he shuts it off, and I can feel the hunger once more.

"May the best man win," he says, and then he closes the door.

It's instinct that has me rising to a crouch, keeping my eyes on the man opposite of me. He looks as crazed as I feel and for a second, we just stare at each other.

Then his eyes drop to the syringe, and I lose it.

I crawl forward like an animal just as he tries for the red liquid, gleaming the color of rubies. Before his fingers can graze it, I ram into him. We both hit the stone hard and I drag in a breath before I'm on him again. In some part of my brain, I know this isn't right. But I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. And maybe that's just it. Maybe I don't want to.

His fist connects with my jaw and stars explode across my vision. He tries again. Ropes of muscular arm wrap around my neck and I lash out, trying to twist from his hold. He's pinning me and I have no leverage. I buck, and manage to loosen his grip enough to worm out. Then I'm on him, my fists meeting his face. The skin over my knuckles breaks but this red is just a color.

I beat him until my hands are numb. Only when I'm satisfied with his still figure do I turn back to the syringe. I reach for it.

A hand latches onto my hair, tugging out follicles by the roots and a roar of anger tears up my throat. It's choked off though by strong fingers, pressing under my jaw, cutting the air from my lungs. I choke as those stars return and I'm drowning in my own galaxy. My vision blurs and I propel my body backward, slamming him into the cold wall. The man stumbles back, breaking his hold.

Before I even register what I'm doing, I'm behind him, hands on either side of his head, twisting. He flails, trying to get away even though he must know he's already lost. Fingers bite into my arms but I don't move. I don't even flinch. A little voice begs me to stop, but I can't. I want this.

My grip tightens.

A snap resounds around the room, and the man between my fingers crumples to the ground. Glassy eyed.

I drag in gasps of air and step over him, to the syringe on the ground that waits for me. I bring the needle to my neck and stick it in the fleshy tissue just beneath my ear.

The hunger leaves me and that emptiness returns. I lower myself to the ground, leaning my head back and drinking in the moment, for once free of pain. My gaze falls on the dead man next to me and I expect to feel some sense of guilt. Of regret.

But I feel nothing but relief.

* * *

The next time I open my eyes, I don't know what to repeat. The words are gone, and though I feel them toying just beyond my reach, I don't strain to grasp them. They're too far away, like an echo carried on a broken wind.

Maybe I'm dead. It's a fleeting thought-one that is quickly contradicted by the hunger that instantly flares up and just like that, the pain is back. But I know I only have to wait forty two seconds, and as I do, the image of wide, unseeing eyes fills my mind.

A new mantra comes to me and I say it over and over, drilling it into every part of my head. Flipping it again and again like a coin.

 _My name doesn't matter. Who I am doesn't matter. I am no one. I am not human._ _I am a monster, and there is no forgiveness for me here._


	3. Heedful Hook

**This is so dark, oh my gosh. Wow. But it's only like this for now. It will get...happier...ish. I really enjoy this style. This is my preferred tense and perspective and how I usually write. I wrote the others in second person, past tense because the books were written that way. Either way, I'm still an obvious fan of romanticism! Please review!**

The world is bleeding. It's wounded, like a dying animal, bathed in its own blood. Red is everywhere. I can taste it on my tongue, coppery and thick like oil. The stones are oozing crimson and I have to close my eyes to keep from seeing it.

Fury mounts inside me, a wild anger that I'm helpless against. I slam my fists against the wall, accepting the distant throb of pain, but that's all it brings. The world stays red.

I want out of this. _Out. Out. Out. Out_.

If I could tear down the walls myself I would. If I could bend steel I'd break through that door and take out those that did this to me; whatever _this_ is. Maybe they've done nothing. Have I always been this way?

I grind my teeth in frustration, jaw clenched so hard I feel a tooth crack. Over the last few days, the forty two seconds have been stretched to minutes; two hundred and thirty of them to be exact. Nearly four hours I'm forced to wait for the syringe's dose. I expect every day to die before the suits come for me, but I don't. Though the hunger makes me feel like I'm burning from the inside out, it doesn't let my heart stop. If anything it makes it beat faster, stronger, until I actually believe I can knock the door from its hinges. My arms are mottled in bruises from trying.

But worst of all is the silence in my own head. It's too quiet and I imagine this is how a body must feel like without its soul. It makes me feel like a shell, like a living echo quickly fading in the distance.

 _Two hundred and one._

I bang my fists against the walls, letting my head rest on the stone. When the pain starts to numb my hands, I rap my forehead against it instead, desperate to feel _something_ other than the pangs stabbing at me. I want my mind off the feeling, but I have nothing to distract myself with. There's the red and the hunger and the pain. Everything else has been pulled from me. I've departed from the walls to become a palpable shadow. A Grim Reaper of the suits' own making.

A grating noise sounds to my right and my eyes drop to the origin of it. There's a small panel at the base of the door and the metal screeches with age as it slides open. A plastic tray is pushed through, laden with a portion of venison and a small cup of water. No fork. I glower. I guess if I'm an animal now I'm expected to eat like one, too. But I don't crave food.

I crave the red.

In one swift movement, I'm at the tray and I garb the glass cup. I hurl it against the wall and it fractures into a hundred pieces, scattering across the floor like diamonds. Water droplets decorate my arms. I do the same to the tray, but it doesn't break like the cup, so I smash it against the door instead. I want it to shatter. To hurt. I want to _feel_ it broken in my hands, unfixable and ruined.

It takes a few tries, but I do it. The one piece of plastic snaps into two and I'm left, breathing heavily, with the jagged parts of it gripped in my hands.

So maybe I can't break down the suits' door. But I can break their tray.

* * *

The days drag by. Or I think it's days, but it's hard to tell. Every passing one is the same, except for the lengthening intervals between doses. They've switched my glass cup to a steel one, but those are the only noticeable differences. I still wait. I still crave, but it's getting harder to control myself when the hours are finally up and the suits come for me. I think they use the device more often but it's hard to sort through it with the ever-growing hunger.

It isn't until the day I actually try to attack the suit that brings me the syringe when something finally changes.

The usual shriek of the device goes off and I stop mid-attack. My knees buckle and I don't feel the hands that are suddenly gripping around my wrists, locking them together with thick, metal cuffs. Though the inside of me is screaming, I stay silent, quiet as the dead as they heft me up and I'm shoved forward. The small confines of the stone walls disappear, but I can't even lift my head to see where I'm going. It takes me a minute to realize how I'm even walking but then I catch the suits on either side of me, supporting me, touching me, and I suddenly want to tear myself away from them. My finger barely twitches as they carry me down some sort of hall, as red as the rest of the world.

The screaming seems to go on forever, shredding apart my eardrums and lacerating every nerve in my head. With my eyes down, I watch as the hard floor turns to dirt and I'm pushed again. The arms supporting me disappear and I hit the ground in a lifeless thud. The sound repeats again, and again as more bodies drop around me. How many others there are, I don't know. I didn't even noticed them until now.

My cheek is in the dirt and my vision swivels forward as someone steps in front of me. I recognize the black shoes in an instant.

"Do you want to know what's better than an inanimate weapon?" the man muses above, but I can't turn my head to see him clearly. He goes on: "A sentient one. You see, it isn't the bomb that brings down the enemy; it's the person who gives the orders for its launch." The man crouches down, until I can finally see his face, device in hand. The shaft of light coming from it makes his eyes shine. "That's what you are," he tells me. "You're my weapon and anyone just beyond those doors is your target."

The suited stranger motions to someone beyond my line of sight and he's handed the syringe. The moisture in my mouth goes dry and my throat feels raw, as if I've gone days without water. The thirst is unquenchable even through the pain in my head and I want nothing more than to tear this man apart, to break him like the tray. But the device renders me immobile and I can't do anything but wait for him.

He plays with the syringe and I stare at the liquid, drifting back and forth, small air bubbles scrambling to the top. "You need this," the man says, his voice tantalizing as he gazes at me. "I need something too, and you're going to get it for me if you want that uncomfortable feeling to end. But don't worry; to make sure you understand what I'm telling you, the first will be a test run. And you've proven so good at tests."

"Sir," a suit steps forward, but I can't see anything more than their protected legs. Their tone sounds wary. "Do you really think the subject is ready? He's more...unstable than the others in his round."

"That's because he hasn't been broken in yet," he answers confidently. "First, we bend him to our will, a little more each day until sooner or later, his breaks on its own."

A muffled sound escapes me and the man's smile widens. "Now, your task is to bring me back someone. I don't care who, so long as they're human. That's when you'll get the Red." He waves the syringe dismissively in front of my face. "You can try to run away, but this is something you can't escape by leaving. The pain will just worsen the longer you go without your dose. Trust me."

I hate him. Every atom of me despises this man, but the anger pales in comparison to everything else. I stare back at him as he looks away from me and nods. Then he stands up. I watch as he recedes from view, and I'm left on the ground until the sound finally breaks off behind the closing of a door.

I drag in a strained breath and pull myself up, waiting a few seconds as the last remnants of those screams fade from my head.

I look around, at the rising of other bodies-half a dozen, I think. Black eyes find me, and my fingers instinctively curl into claws. None of them attack me, though. They just force themselves to their feet and begin walking, down the stretch of tunnel curving ahead.

The device has made me confused and disoriented. But then my hunger is back and everything is clear.

Red. I want the red. So I stumble forward, my feet sliding over the dirt with rocks digging into my heels as I scan the uneven channel before me, carved from the Earth. some low growls and derisory glances are tossed my way but I ignore them. They don't matter. The only thing I care about is that dose. My blood thrums in my veins for it. My heart pounds for it.

I only have to walk a few more meters until the end of the tunnel meets a large, circular door. Others are there before me, already pulling it open and I don't have a moment to brace against the blinding rays of light that suddenly split through the opening. Fear shoots through me and I fall backwards, waiting for the horrible pain. For the screams. But they don't come.

Slowly, I rise to my feet. I lift a defensive hand up, blinking rapidly to clear out the light. Around me, the men hesitate, too. Some cower away from it, slinking back into the shadows and it takes me a physical effort not to do the same. I will myself to step forward, into the sun, the fire, and out into the world beyond. I push the door the rest of the way open.

Light consumes me, spilling over every inch of my skin and for a second I stare at it. In this moment, my vision clears as I watch the golden liquid pool in my hands and play across my fingertips, burning them.

But then I blink, and the red tint is back. The light cupped in my palms suddenly looks like blood.

I drop my fists to my sides and stare out ahead. At the red ground. The patches of red grass. At the red treetops spearing a red sky.

My eyes lower, pausing on a small, red blossom nestled inside a clutch of pine needles. Five petals shine with beads of dew.

I grimace. What a foolish flower to think it's strong enough to survive winter. Frail things that fight are just more liable to break anyway, so to prove to the bud its own weakness, I don't hesitate to crush it underfoot.


	4. Friends and Monsters

**I WILL have Clarke's perspective next. Unless you guys don't want that and I can have her perspective come in later. You tell me which one and I will do it. The more reviews posted, the faster I update. But I'll still update anyway. I don't update as frequently because I'm still finishing up my other fanfiction. But the reviews help my motivation.**

I can't remember the last time I've felt the rain. The sun has taken refuge behind a blanket of clouds, snuffing out the blinding light. The last few rays that have managed to penetrate through are shielded by the a thick deluge of water.

The ugly, bruised sky is a welcomed sight.

I don't like the sun.

I pick my way over a fallen log, needles jabbing into the soles of my feet, but I don't care. I don't care that I'm soaked or that the rain mingles with the red sheen until it looks like blood and water are mixing together. My hair gets in my eyes and sticks to the sides of my head. The dirt has turned to mud and it squelches between my toes but it's all distant. I don't pay attention to any of it, save for the occasional noise around me that cuts through the downpour; the rustling of a bush. The snapping of a twig. It all makes me whirl around, so suddenly that I almost slip and fall over. I feel like I'm in overdrive, too aware of every little thing. I'm all instinct; all reaction. I'm a bomb and one wrong move will set me off.

I don't know how far I walk and a small voice nags at me that I'll lose my way back, but something else tells me I won't. After all, it's not that easy to misplace a mountain.

 _Anyone just beyond those doors is your target,_ I think back to the suited man's words. Target. It's not much to go by so I don't really know what I'm looking for.

That is, not until I actually come across it.

I hear the woman before I see her. Footsteps that should be quiet are much louder to me. It's almost like she's asking for the forest's attention. It hurts my head and I count to keep the headache at bay. I watch the wet area warily.

Then I see her; She holds a cloth over her head, blocking out the rain as she moves over the forested terrain. Bare-footed. Petite. _Your task is to bring me back someone. I don't care who, so long as they're human._

She doesn't even see me coming. I wait behind the trunk of a tree as she passes and taking her down is almost painfully easy. I trip her and grab her around the waist, wrestling her against the ground. She fights, of course. She tries to buck me off and a scream bubbles in her throat but my hand over her mouth keeps her from releasing it. I feel her teeth work against my palm, fighting to bite me, but I just hold her jaw in place. I grapple with her hands and, using my free one, I pin them tightly behind her back.

The cloth has fallen off in the scuffle and I yank her back, until I can see her clearly.

Wide eyes meet mine, rounded in terror and it doesn't make me feel guilty or ashamed. It makes me feel powerful, and I'm rejuvenated by this girl's fear. That she's afraid of _me_.

Good. She should be.

The red tint fades for a moment and I pull her closer, until I can see the fingerprints embellished in the blue paint across her face; I can clearly make out the viridescent stars in her emerald eyes. Dark braids fall around half of her face, the other tied up in an elaborate spiral that I'm surprised has held in place.

Shallow breaths saw through her lips and she tries to push me away but I'm too strong for her and we both know it. My hand squeezes her wrists tightly-painfully- and her wriggling only makes it worse. She figures that out after a few more times. Her body suddenly slumps against mine in defeat.

" _Chei,_ " she says. At first it's just a whisper, but it grows more insistent, until she's repeating it over and over at my feet. I don't have to speak her language to know she's pleading for her life.

It passes over me like air. The word is meaningless and empty. I'm sure some part of me knows this woman probably has a family. She must have reasons to stay alive, but I've buried that part. It's dead.

I don't say anything as I yank her to her feet and steer her ahead. I don't keep my hand on her, and she takes it as a chance to get away. She tries to bolt, but I only have to reach out my hand and pull her back. Eventually, she stops, seeing the futility of it. I still wish the suited man had given me something to use as a weapon at least. But this is a test of my endurance. My allegiance. My dependency on a syringe filled with liquid.

 _The pain will just worsen the longer you go without your dose. Trust me._

Judging by how my throat feels like it's burning more now than it had when I left, I find myself believing him. The pain of it makes me more desperate and rushed, reducing what little understanding I've gleaned from the world around me. The crimson color is also deepening, turning from a diluted tint to a thin paint, as thick as blood itself. That doesn't help my concentration or my coherence and I'm practically shoving the woman forward in uncoordinated, jerky movements.

I can't waste any time. I have to reach the mountain. The Red. I have to. _I have to I have to I have to._

"Please."

The English word startles me and I look down at the woman who's fallen for the umpteenth time, her blue-stained face now cut through by tears and rainwater.

Some small glimmer of hope shines in her eyes at my recognition. "You speak English," she says, and I can hear her relief. "Please, my Father-"

But I just shove her forward, harder, ignoring her pitiful attempts to save her own skin. I don't know what the suited man plans to do with her, but I know it's better if it's done to her instead of me.

That small window of light in her eyes blinks out and everything about her grows heavy. Her face falls. Her shoulders drop, body depleted of all hope.

But this woman has no one but herself to blame. She's the one who got too comfortable in the woods. She's the one who made friends with a place so full of monsters.

* * *

I'm halfway back to the mountain when someone stops me in my tracks. I stare at him.

By the red tinge to his blue eyes, I can tell he's like me but older. His shaggy blonde hair is twisted and gnarled. His clothing is a composition of swatches of animal skins and clothing that's so worn and stained it's hard to tell what any of it used to be. He also wears a set of armor that's so pale it looks to be made of bone. It _is_ bone, I realize. The ribs of some lowly creature have been split to form a pair of shoulder pads.

My eyes drop to his hand, at the sharp knife that's gripped in it.

The woman cowers back but I don't let her get that far, latching onto her arm before she can move much farther. She freezes, and the man's eyes land on her. Desire flashes in them.

I'm suddenly confused. I didn't think there was more to desire than the Red.

He crouches down and whatever thought I've managed to hold on to flies from my mind. I barely have enough time to dive out of the way before he springs on me.

I hit the mud and flip over as fast as I can, sending my heel into the man's face. There's a crunch and a garbled scream, but it isn't enough to stop him. He comes again. The knife grins at me.

He aims it for my thigh but I pull myself up and out of the way. I use my body weight to my advantage and launch myself at him. It's like hitting a wall, but he gives. He tumbles back until he's splayed across the ground and he doesn't have the chance to move before I'm on top of him.

I latch onto one of his wrists and slam it into the dirt. Again and again. His hold on the knife loosens and I wrest it out of his grip. I hold it over him.

His hate-filled eyes stare at the knife and almost turn somber, like he knows what's coming next.

I don't even know, and it's suddenly like someone else is clutching the knife in my hands. It's as if, a moment later, someone else is pointing it downward and plunging it into the man's chest.

Those blue eyes bulge and I watch whatever life they once held drain from them. He stops seeing me, eyes perpetually trained on the angry sky passed my shoulder.

My heart is pounding, beating in sync with the rain and I pull out the blade, slick with blood. The water washes it off almost instantly; the ropes of red drip down and into the mud. I stare at it.

At least I have a weapon now.

The sound of crunching leaves grabs my attention and my gaze snaps to the woman, who's started running. Something animalistic has me on my feet in an instant and I race after her, knife still in my hand. She doesn't even bother to look back until I'm nearly on her. My free hand reaches out and I grab her by the scruff of her clothing. She lets out a yelp as she falls backwards, hitting the ground as hard as that man had. Maybe harder.

I stand over her and watch as an ugly red line blooms over her neck. She chokes, struggling to reclaim the oxygen that has been knocked from her lungs.

I don't drag her up right away. Instead, I bend down beside her, knife aloft. She looks at it and then her eyes meet mine. I see no defiance. No fight in her. There's only submission and I flash the blade again, its crude edge gleaming dully from the water trickling from its tip.

She's shaking- lips parted in terror, fingers curled into the dirt as if she can physically hold on to her life.

I don't say anything. My voice is too far away, but my message is clear. I know I can't kill her, not when she's my only ticket to the Red, but she doesn't know that. I can practically see the bloody scenarios she's painting in her mind.

Her fear is tangible, but this time, it doesn't please me. In fact, it annoys me for some reason and I channel it into the knife, squeezing it until my knuckles turn white. The lack of Red is making me unpredictable and I make sure to keep a little distance between us.

Because if I'm being honest, I really don't know what I might do.

* * *

She's bleeding by the time we reach the mountain. Her hands are scuffed and her knees are raw from falling. She's finally stopped trying to get away, stumbling forward in silence other than the sounds of her quiet whimpering. I almost wish I'd taken someone stronger;bringing her back doesn't seem like a huge testament to my abilities.

I stop in front of the circular door. I don't see any others until I pull it open and step back into the tunnel. The rain disappears and I shake the water from my hair. The world grows darker, and my eyes are struggling to adjust to the lack of light.

I have my hand on the girl's shoulder so I feel her tense impossibly more when she takes in the other men. There's only a few but I'm instantly on my guard. I watch them as I pass, tossing them glares if they even _think_ of trying what the other guy did. The blade is still at my side and I angle it in a way that ensures they see it.

In front of me the girl's head dips down, her gaze frozen on her feet as if a single look at anyone will provoke them to attack. I actually don't think she's wrong. I keep walking, glaring at those around me. When I reach the door that leads deeper into the mountain, I shove the woman down, until her knees hit the dirt.

And then I wait.

It doesn't take long. Two minutes, if that. The door swings open and there's a Suit, holding the device. I flinch. They haven't turned it on though, and I'm very aware of the knife in my hand. If they think I'm a threat, I know they won't hesitate to turn on the screams, so I drop it.

The suit looks at the knife for a minute and then turns back to the open door. They nod.

And in comes the suited man. All poise and precision. His eyes find mine and he sizes me up before they settle on the girl. He appraises her, head cocked to the side, an amused look spreading across his face. He holds his own device but makes no move to turn it on. Not yet, anyway.

He takes a closer inspection at the girl, sweeping her mud-caked braids behind her shoulder. She doesn't look at him.

The suited man sighs and for a second, I think he disapproves. But then, without looking at the Suit standing close to him, says, "Harvest her."

I watch as they take away the girl, leading her back through the door. I doubt I'll ever see her again.

Maybe I feel a twinge of empathy, but it's consumed by the hunger. With those two words I take as approval, I kneel on the ground. It doesn't matter if I look weak. Right now, I'll do anything for the Red, and the suited man knows it. He doesn't even seem concerned over the knife in the dirt in front of me as he pulls the syringe out.

"You're getting the hang of this, Reaper," he tells me, and drops it beside the weapon.

I snatch the syringe up eagerly. Ravenously. I don't even wince at the needle as it goes in.

Instantly, the fire is put out. The hunger is sated and I sigh in relief.

 _So that's my name,_ I think. Subject. Fighter. Killer. _Reaper_.

Recalling the knife drenched in blood, I can't help but think it fitting.


	5. The Sower

**Okay, so SINCE I am so behind on everything Bellarke with my fanfictions, I decided to add more of this one. Because I have an idea for this one again, and I like going from fic to fic because then at least I always have something to post. Please review!**

The suited man is pleased with me.

Since first leaving the confines of my cage and heading into the woods, my bounty of blood has doubled in volume, until I am returning with full-grown men whose strength is no match for my own. Though I don't care about the suited man or what he thinks beyond the syringe he holds, I've noticed how he has started calling me Reaper instead of Subject. Like I am worthy of the name.

He can have it. His names and his pride and whatever else lives in between. I breathe Red now. That's the only thing that exists, like the cares of the world have been liquefied and swept inside a syringe. The moment of it is fleeting, but during that small time, everything goes quiet. The hunger dies. The roaring calms. There's just a pocket of empty. Feeling the Red is to feel almost human again.

Whatever that was like.

The others have learned to fear me. When we're released into the tunnels, the other reapers-the subjects- stay away from me, as if one wrong look will earn them a fight. They are not wrong. I've gotten into more brawls than I can count, with bloody knuckles and aching ribs and burning cuts, but the suited man does not punish me. In fact, sometimes I think he likes to see what I can do. My power is a weapon he prides himself on unleashing.

I don't know how much time has passed. Enough to where my first outing starts to blur along the edges, until I can't recall anything before that. Hunting, as far as I'm concerned, is all I've ever done.

"Take the South tunnel this time," the suited man orders one day. It's the morning after I brought back two boys for him, wading in the stream with barbed tools in their hands. They were young, but they were strong and didn't give up as easily as some seniors.

The suited man flicks the syringe back and forth, the action issuing a growl from me. I bottle it in my chest, though. Let it simmer there.

His gaze lingers on mine, as if scrutinizing my self-control. He is waiting for me to snap, but the presence of the syringe keeps me from attacking, the presence of the device in his other hand, from moving. Neither is enough to keep me from glaring, though. I can feel the heat backed up behind my eyes, putting pressure on my temples.

He fingers the device, debating on whether or not to turn it on.

An image comes to mind, of me stepping forward and snatching the device from his grip. Of grabbing it so hard it breaks in my hand. I imagine doing the same to him.

But the suited man is just playing a game, and waves me off. He doesn't turn away from me though, and neither do any of the suits. They back up, never giving us an opening to pounce.

I don't hesitate to turn around. The only damage they can do is with the device, and it doesn't matter whether my back is on them or not. No, I just want to hurry with the hunt so I can get my dose of Red and let all this fade away. For a moment.

The tunnels don't seem as dark as they once did. My eyes have adjusted to the shadows, my boots accustomed to the packed earth. I haven't gone South yet and don't know where I'll end up. But I've gotten better at finding my way back, through heavy rain that allows even a mountain to hide behind.

I don't hear the patter of water above the tunnels today though, and keep my knife secured by my side as I go. I also have a club, but it's heavy and can throw me off balance. I prefer the smallness of a blade, its compacted lethality quick and easy. I know where to strike someone's neck that kills them. _How_ I know that, I can't remember.

Dirt crushes under my rubber soles and I let myself be carried down, down, following the tunnel like I did that stream. The area behind my left shoulder blade aches at the memory of a barbed tool's blunt force. Children, I've discovered, can be stronger than you expected.

I start to get impatient and pick up my pace, the red paint of my vision a constant reminder. I don't know how many miles it is later until the shadows start to break apart, letting in a soft, muted light that burns my eyes. I blink before tearing away thick ropes of vine that have grown over a small, metal panel that sits in the dirt. I close my eyes as I yank it back, showering myself in bits of dirt and dull slices of daylight. They stab at me but it's not as bright as I recall. Evening must be coming; I nearly sigh in relief.

I emerge out of a rocky hillside, adorned in small trees and patches of grass that jut and stoop wearily over empty air. Tall woods stretch before me, their thick bodies padded down with red moss, like wounded soldiers with no place to go.

I skim the area once, listening for a stream or river. Keeping my eyes open for rising smoke. I don't see or hear anything that piques my interest and after a few minutes, my fingers bite into my palm, irritated.

Then I hear it.

It's almost nothing at first, just the sigh of the wind. But it carries on it the crunch of gravel and the smell of fire.

I whip around, so fast my shoulder protests. But I don't care. My eyes narrow as I start in the direction of the sound, moving deftly through the soldier trees. Red rises up in my memory, like my own personal dawn.

The sounds get louder, until the telltale sign of life shows itself in the wisps of smoke I can make out, just above the canopy of trees. Where there's fire, there's people, and I hurry along, feeling my grip tighten on the handle of my blade. I don't know whether it's desperation or anticipation that prompts me to grip it so hard. Maybe there is no one without the other.

I'm on the uprising of a small hill, which offers a good vantage point of the scene ahead. It's a village, made of thatch huts and partially corroded by a pathetic fence line. I'm sure there are eyes in these woods, but night is falling. The day is being leached from the grounds and soon I will be nothing more to them than shadow. Shadow and hunger.

I wet my lips and look over the village, gaze snagging on any moving object. I zero in on a child with braided blonde hair. Too small. There's a woman carrying a basket on her hip, full of what looks to be furs. Too old. I get closer, until I'm only a handful of trees from walking out and into the village. Now I'm in full view of the scene. The voices. The smell of burning wood and cooking meat. It's almost enough to perk a different kind of hunger in me, the one that sits like a hollow tomb beneath my ribs. But it disappears almost as soon as it's recognized.

I linger on the outskirts, waiting and watching for someone to break from the lines of scurrying civilians. It is a flurry of activity and for a second, I can almost imagine myself living in a place like this, carrying a dead animal over my shoulder, sitting by a fire that doesn't burn me. Then that image shatters, when I spot a woman behind a hut, close enough to reach without being seen.

Evening is here and the hunger is growing, turning to a time bomb inside my head. She will have to do.

I move, launching myself across the ground, stepping only on stones and damp grass that won't snap. She doesn't even have time to scream as my hand clamps over her mouth, securing her head against my chest. But she tries to anyway, the sound like a mouthful of water bubbling through my fingers. I start to drag her back when her elbow snaps out, catching me in the stomach. I gasp.

It's enough that she starts to slip away and I barely regain my hold before she makes it from around the hut. This time, her scream pierces the air.

I fight against her, pulling her back as footsteps start, stamping like a drum through the dirt and mud. She pushes and tugs, punches and tries to wriggle her way from me, but I won't let her go. Losing her means losing the Red. _And I will not lose the Red._

I Use the full length of my arm to pin her to me from under her jaw. Her hands claw at my skin but I barely feel them puncture. I need to go. To leave with her now. The hunger is loud in my ears, cracking my bones and shaking up my blood.

Other shouts rise up, as heady as the cloying smoke and I shift around, just in time to glimpse an able-bodied man rushing me.

I have no choice. I shove the woman out of my way and duck, missing the impact of his ax. It cuts the air above me into ribbons but before he can recover, my knife is out and slicing across his ankle. His cry is louder than the girl's.

I jump to my feet just as another man is there, beard braided and lined with beads that slap against his chin. I sidestep him and use the brute strength of my club this time. He, unlike the others, has no chance to scream.

But another pair of arms appears where the other has fallen, and through it all, I make out the sound of other cries, ringing through the village like an alarm. The word is clipped, and changes from one I don't know, to one I do.

 _"Reapers!"_

More men are here now, encircling me, trapping me. In the light of the dying sun and livid fire, the tips of crude blades and spears grin at me. The faces blur but their weapons are clear. I turn around, trying to hold my own against them all. Hunger won't let me stop. If I don't fight, I die. If I don't take the Red, I die. Slowly and in agony. There is no other way.

The weapons gleam at me, inviting, full of their own hunger. They're already bathed in red. I raise both my weapons, imagining this barrier torn apart at my feet. I hear the strain of wood as an arrow is nocked.

 _"No!"_

The voice cuts through the throng, slipping between my barrier of flesh and bone. At first I don't hear it. Then my gaze flickers up, only for a heartbeat, and they capture the sight of a young woman, blonde hair looking like red gold in the farewell traces of light.

I look back to the weapons. The hand holding my blade twitches. The arrow's tip is pointed directly at my chest.

"Wait, stop!" the girl says, louder, shouldering her way towards the weapons. Towards me, as if unafraid. My irritation surges until I take a step forward, craving another fight, this one to the death. Perhaps I should've gone for this girl instead.

The man holding the arrow nearly lets go. But suddenly the girl is there, her hand on his arm, a fierce expression on her face. Yet the moment her gaze meets mine, whatever bravado that was just there melts from her features. Her light eyes go wide in what I first think to be delayed fear. Then I realize it's something akin to horror.

I glare back, the hunger searing my temples and roaring like the crash of a wave. But if the girl has heard it, she makes no sign of acknowledgment. Instead those eyes bore into me, lips parted, brows knitted together in disbelief. Her voice drops to a whisper and this time it wavers, catching on a strange name I don't recognize.

"Bellamy?"


	6. Fall Through My Hands

**PLEASE REVIEW, I LOVE REVIEWS, KAY?**

The girl is too close. So close the light from the fire and fading sky makes her hair glow, until it burns to look at her, like she is crowned in a brilliant slice of daylight. She keeps staring at me and I stare back, feeling a low growl start deep in my chest.

"Bellamy?" she repeats that strange name, like a hope and a sentence rolled into one.

I lunge for her.

Almost before I've moved a step, a pain erupts in my back and I look sideways. I'm with a long wooden shaft, sticking from my shoulder. The girl is shouting and a force slams against me, tossing me into the dirt, I scramble up but a pressure on my hand stops me. There's a boot over my fingers and the heel of it stamps down, enough to make my joints scream and for my hold over my blade to loosen. The club is next.

The pain in my head is getting worse, right at either side of my temple, drilling through my cranium and pushing through the other side.

The men do not lower their weapons and I cast a glare around them, daring those gleaming points to puncture something. Start this war and give me a door to unleash this torrent of fury on. It builds beneath my skin until I'm clenching my hands in the dirt, so hard the knuckles crack.

That bow is still nocked, but the arrow does not fly. The girl makes sure of it, stretching a hand out to the others in warning, as if they're the threat. Insolent creature this sunshine girl is.

"You're _not_ killing him!" she barks at a burly man swathed in furs, raising a blade despite her protest. But a moment later, the man lets out a ragged cry, his hand drops, and the blade clatters to the dirt. Another strike, and he is on one knee before me. Another girl stands behind him, miraculously dark haired. It's done in a complex braid and her clothing is like the other villagers, eyes the color of a red sky. There's a furious expression on her face as she pulls back the man's head by his own braid and glowers. "I'd listen to her if I were you."

Then this girl is looking at me too, with that same incredulous, horrified expression. Slant eyebrows pulled together. She releases the man with a shove and takes a step forward. "Bel?"

That growl finds its way through my lips and though the girl pauses, she doesn't stop. She moves forward, too close, but not close enough to snag on my blade. She toes an invisible border, just maddeningly out of my reach. She stretches out a hand and on instinct, I recoil. "What did they do to you?"

"I wouldn't get too close, Octavia," says the sunshine girl, her voice holding a warning. It doesn't waver anymore; it's strong again, which makes my fury grow. Stronger things are harder to break.

I think for a heartbeat that name sounds familiar. _Octavia._ A distant thought. A fading dream. A voice dying on the wind. But then it's snatched away, and it means nothing to me.

The girl doesn't look back but she pauses, staring at me with big eyes that remind me of a child's. "Bel, it's me." She scrutinizes my face, as if expecting some sign of recognition. But she gets none; I've never seen her before. There never was a before.

When she isn't satisfied, her face hardens and a flash of loathing that nearly matches my own crosses her eyes. "He's one of them," she murmurs. "A reaper." She heard the alarms. She already knows this, but acts as if she has to say it for it to be true.

Behind her, the sunshine girl does not even nod. "I know."

Without looking over her shoulder, this one named Octavia asks, "What do we do with him?"

"We"—

The girl twists on her heels so fast any chances of attacking her slip through my fingers. She whirls on the blonde girl. "We have to cure him. There has to be something."

"There is nothing that can be done to save a Reaper," says one of the men, the one still holding the bow aloft, its point trailed on my heart. This answer fuels the girl Octavia and she turns on him instead. "Then you haven't tried hard enough! We're not killing him," she echoes the other's earlier words.

"No we're not," agrees the blonde girl, in that same commandeering tone. It reminds me of the suited man, and how he handles the suits. "We'll sedate him, and remove him to someplace else, until we figure this out." She cocks her head in the direction of the bowman. "Are you sure you've tried everything to save a Reaper?"

"They are our people," the man replies sharply, dark eyes blazing. "Some of us have families with Red Eyes. What wouldn't we try if it meant restoring them as they were?"

The sunshine girl seems to consider this and gives a curt nod. A strand of blonde falls over her left eye. She does not brush it back. "And how did those you tried to save end up?"

The man's gaze flickers from her to me, those eyes like coals. "They died screaming."

* * *

I wake not in a stone room, but a metal one.

All I remember is a force connecting at the back of my head, enough to make the blood roar in my ears. Then the world grew fuzzy, the dirt beneath me blurred, and the ground rushed up to me, wrapping around me like a blanket that smothered my eyes and made the world go dark.

It's still dark, other than a grated light coming from the wall to my right, like the sun is trying to claw its way through to me. It fails. Shadows decorate the room and splash over half of me. Something tight bounds my shoulder and I glance down only to find a thin cloth wrapped around it. I try to tear it off with my other hand but it won't come to me. My wrists are bound in metal shackles that hang down from the ceiling. The floor holds another pair that grips my legs. There's no slack for movement and the disorientation clears, dried up from the heat of my sudden rage.

It's the only thing I feel, other than the terrible ache in my temples, screeching nails raking down my skull. I want to pull my head apart if it means letting it out.

"You're awake."

A jolt runs through me and I shudder against my bindings, looking over to a pocket of darkness. The sunshine girl emerges, and the light catches in her hair again, like the two are magnetized to each other. I instantly yank on my wrists, ignoring the bursts of pain that shoot up my arms. It doesn't faze her and she steps closer, until she's right there. Right in front of me. If my arms weren't bound, I could reach out and touch her.

"Bellamy," she says, and an involuntary hiss escapes me. I wish she'd stop repeating that. It's like an annoying itch. An itch content on making itself bleed.

She shifts her feet, staring me straight in the face. Her eyes, like the rest of the world, are a washed out red. "Do you know who I am?"

I open my mouth and gnash my teeth at her.

She flinches back and inhales through tight lips. Her jaw tightens. "I know what they did to you," she says slowly, watching me. "You were turned into this, and I'm going to find a way to fix it."

I want to break the metal holding me and launch myself at this girl, if only to cut off her words. They're annoying gnats swarming by my head, exacerbating the pain in my temples. I twist in an effort to release some of the tension, as if it will help. The movement catches the girl's attention and her gaze pauses on my neck. She leans forward.

I snap at her.

She clenches a hand. "That's the injection area," she says, as if to herself, and peers closer.

I throw my weight against the shackles, making the chains tethering them to the ceiling rattle. The sunshine girl bites her lip and shakes her head, turning her back on me for a second. I hear her drag in a heavy, hitching breath.

Then a creak sounds, and a circular piece of floor flips upward, letting in more unwelcomed light. I hiss and snarl as the other girl, Octavia, ascends into view, until I can see her from her torso up, still dressed in that different gear. Her dark eyes land on me and her expression goes tight, all pinched eyes and pursed lips. After a moment, she asks, "Any change?"

The other girl has turned back to me and gives a small shake of her head, causing a stray lock to fall over her shoulder. "No. But it's only been twenty four hours."

"How long til the drug is out of his system?"

"I don't know. A couple days, maybe."

This doesn't seem to curb the girl and her lips pull back a bit. She trudges up the rest of the way until she stands on the metal floor, keeping the hatch open. "Is there a way to speed it up?"

"I'm not willing to risk it," says the blonde girl. "He should metabolize the last dose quickly. Then we'll go from there."

"Three days," the Octavia girl mutters, voice low. It draws the blonde's attention. "What?"

"That's how long the others said," she clarifies. "They all died after three days."

If this fazes the blonde, she doesn't let it show. "I guess we'll have to wait. There's no saying how Bellamy's body processes the drug. The Ark could've affected him differently than the grounders."

"You don't sound very certain."

"That's because I'm not." The blonde rubs her temple. "About any of this. But I believe he's still in there, Octavia. Somewhere." And then, in a lower voice, "He has to be." She looks back at the girl. "Did you get-?"

"Yeah." Octavia steps forward and extends something small that I think is a glass bottle of something, along with a hollow tube sealed in a clear package. "Your mom couldn't spare more than two doses of propofol. That's what you needed, right?"

The blonde girl takes the items and nods. "Yeah. Two doses should be fine. I just need to check his shoulder. The last thing we need is him getting sepsis during withdrawal, but he won't let me near him." She tears open the package and pulls out the tube, along with the thin, wicked point of a needle. She connects the two and injects it into the small bottle that glimmers in the grated patches of light. I watch the tube fill, feeling my anger grow and I strain against the shackles, ignoring the metal that bites into my wrists.

The girl pulls out the syringe and flicks it twice. Then she takes a step back up to me, resuming her earlier position. I bare my teeth at her.

The blonde looks over her shoulder, back to Octavia. "I need a distraction. After he's out, I need you back downstairs."

The other girl's eyebrows raise, in what I think is disbelief. "What? No, Clarke, I'm staying here."

The sunshine girl's expression, the one named Clarke, doesn't change. "I don't know how long the effect of this will have on him, or how quickly his system will burn it off and I don't want you in the room if something goes wrong."

Octavia glares. "Clarke-"

"You being here could be causing greater mental and emotional stress," she replies robotic ally, voice impassive. "The lesser people in here the better."

Beyond my anger, I think I hear a lie in the sunshine girl's words.

"Then let me stay."

"Do you know how to treat a puncture wound through the shoulder? How to make a poultice?" She sighs. "Please, Octavia, I'll be quick, and then you can take watch over him." As if in afterthought, she adds, "Why don't you check back in with Raven? See if she's made contact with Lincoln? I'll be done by then."

The other girl looks like she wants to argue. I can see the fury in her features, eyes the color of ash. But she doesn't say anything as she turns away abruptly and retreats back to the hatch, pausing when her body has nearly disappeared through the floor and drawing the hatch door closed overhead.

The sunshine girl turns back to me, blonde hair a tangle of burnt gold and light, her mouth set in a grim line. She steps as close to me as my restraints allow, much closer than I want her. I can smell the pine from her clothes and nearly spit on her before the presence of the syringe draws me up short, and I want to do a lot more than spit. I growl and snarl and snap, so close I almost catch a strand of her hair between my teeth. She reaches my right forearm, fingers grazing my skin. They're cold and I instantly want to take her hand in mine and snap those fingers off like a bundle of sticks. It would be so easy.

On instinct, my hand loosens from its fist, gently, feigning weakness if only to draw her closer. The lines in her face smooth for a moment and her own touch inches down to my wrist. My fingers shoot forward and stretch, just long enough to wrap around her wrist. I squeeze.

She hisses in a breath and then her other hand brings up the syringe. Before I can react, it's pierced my shoulder. I don't release her and growl in rage, until I'm earned a pained cry from her.

It doesn't last. The clear liquid in the syringe has done something and against my will, my fingers fall from around her wrist, releasing her. I try to reach for her again, but my body suddenly feels very heavy. The drums in my temples gives one last resounding pound before the light falls away and the shadows descend.

* * *

The first thing I see when I come to is her, leaning so close to me her hair brushes against my cheek. Her eyes are not on me though; they're fastened on the shoulder her hands are touching, fingers coming away red. The next thing I notice is the absence of one of the chains. The hand of the shoulder she's bent over is free.

My body moves before my mind processes it.

Before the girl has a chance to move back, my hand is around her neck. It's comically small between my fingers, a combination of soft tissue and flesh and bone. I feel her pulse jump beneath my grip and hammer against my palm as her eyes stretch wide before me. She tries to scramble back but I clench my hand harder, earning a jagged gasp from her. She casts a quick glance to her side and I notice the syringe there, lying just out of her reach.

She grabs a hold of my hand in an effort to pry it from around her neck, gaze pleading at me hopelessly. After all that she's done, it's a satisfying sight.

"Bellamy," she rasps, voice muted, she practically mouths the word. She slams her hand against mine with the butt of her palm. "Bellamy, stop."

I squeeze tighter, my anger roaring like a chasm inside. My skull feels like it's being broken apart but I don't release her. I don't let the anger go. I let it fuel me.

Her eyes bore into mine. "Your name is Bellamy Blake," she chokes, the words breaking around my hands. "You have . . . a sister. Oc-Octavia." Her nails dig into the thin flesh at my wrist, her weak arms struggling to keep my fingers from crushing her windpipe. "Your mother . . . was floated. You came to the ground to . . . protect Octavia." Her fingers scrabble harder and her eyes are a storm now, brewing clouds and falling rain. "Please, Bellamy. Stop. This isn't-this isn't you."

But I can't stop; My hands don't know how to let go. I don't know how to want to let go. All she speaks are words. They fall over me like air, insubstantial and meaningless. I want to say something back, but what comes from me is a snarl, something so animalistic she cringes away.

But there's nowhere for her to go. Nowhere to run. The sunshine girl is losing her light.

"You're still . . . in there, Bellamy," she rasps. "I need you . . . to fight. _Fight this, Bellamy!"_

I shout at her, an unintelligible garble of sound conveying the fury inside. Fight? I am fighting, for the sweet release waiting for me beneath the mountain. And the only thing standing in my way is her. Gone do I wish this sunshine girl. I just want the Red and she is my cage, keeping me here in this prison with walls not strong enough to hold me. I will shatter it. I will shatter her. I will tear the storm from her eyes and watch it swallow the light.

One of her hands suddenly fall from me and my hold tightens. But she pulls her fist back just in time for me to watch as it hurdles forward and connects with the side of my head, just at the stabbing at my temple.

A screaming pain tears through me, shuddering all the way down my spine and I momentarily lose my grip.

I try again, but it's too late. I grab her shoulder just as she reaches for the syringe. My fingers find the hollow of her throat at the same moment the syringe is plunged into my arm. Then I'm falling again.

The last thing I see is the girl's face. For a second, the red haze clears and her eyes are no longer red, but a brilliant, unsettling blue.


	7. Ever Changing

**Okay, so if anyone is confused as to the timeframe, this is directly after Finn's death, with Lincoln in Mount Weather in Bellamy's shoes, having never undergone any Reaper transformation. So yup. Please review!**

Someone is shredding apart my skull. Piece by piece. I'm sure before I even open my eyes I'll find bits of bone fragments lying on the floor.

Yet when I do manage to peel back my lids, the metal floor is bare. The light slashing into the room sears straight through my eyes and into the back of my head. I hiss, but it sounds more like a pained gurgle. My mouth is like cracked dirt, limbs like stone. The red curtain seems more brilliant today, making the room a burning glaze of crimson wall and crimson floor. I try to blink it duller, but it doesn't change. The ache in my head has grown to a galvanizing pound that ricochets from temple to temple, so strong it makes my eyes water.

I need the Red. I need it more than water and the air in my lungs. Need it more than the other red in my veins. But my arm isn't free anymore. The steel is stronger than me and even though I pull and tug and shriek at the bindings, they refuse to let me go. The only thing that breaks is my skin, over and over, deeper and deeper, reopening day-old wounds. The pain is dull in comparison to the crescendo in my head.

"It's almost out of your system," comes a familiarly unfamiliar voice and again appears the sunshine girl, breaking through the thick clouds of shadow. But there's something off about her today. Something distinctly _breakable._

Maybe it's the way her voice rasps and cracks, no longer made of steel.

Maybe it's the bruising that lines her neck I can glimpse through the shifting material of her shirt.

Maybe it's the detached look in her red eyes, that tells me she is looking at a Reaper, and not at a friend.

My response is a low growl.

She ignores me, instead coming forward with a silver jar of sorts. She stops just before me. When her right sleeve retracts, I see a bracelet of bruises there, too. "Right now your body is going through withdrawal," she says, and I distantly wonder why she's telling this to me. Why she thinks it matters. "Headaches," she continues, "disorientation, they're the most common adverse reactions. It should be another day before we notice any change."

 _Three days,_ the suited mans words ring back to me from the knife if memory, it hurts to recall. To think. To refrain from sowing the metal shackles through my wrists.

"It's important you stay hydrated," she continues, oblivious to the cacophony of pain in my head. Or maybe she's not, and instead wants me to feel it.

She raises the metal jar and steps toward me, cautious, yet not afraid enough to stop.

But water is no substitute for the Red, and if I can't have the latter, I'm better off left for dead.

"Bellamy," she says. Demanding. I turn my head away from her, ignoring the onslaught of pain that comes with the action, burning holes into the wall at my side.

A sigh escapes her. "Bellamy, if you don't drink anything you could go into hypovolemic shock," she continues, but I have the feeling her words are for her alone. Perhaps my death will bring her pain. I wonder just how much I want it to.

She inhales a shaky breath, and it's like I can hear her iron will eroding and crumbling away. She is not as strong as the others have been led to believe.

I glance back to her long enough to watch as she shuts her eyes. Her lashes cast their sharp silhouettes down her cheeks, making it look like the sunshine girl is crying shadows.

But she's not crying. In fact, I can hear her thinking from here, silent and insistent. But I doubt she truly knows what to do, and am almost content with watching her try to figure it out anyway.

She's just opening her eyes when the metal door swings up again, and in comes the other girl, much like the previous day. I can't tell if they're more alike than they realize or more different than I realize. But if I can read anything, it's that one is not softer than the other.

"Hey," says the brunette, whose name has fled from me. She nods in my direction. "I'll take watch now."

The blonde looks like she has something to say but acquiesces, extending the metal jar to the other girl. She takes it stoically, and I don't miss the cold look in her eyes.

The blonde moves to the hatch but pauses before ascending. She looks back. "Octavia-"

"Save it, Clarke," the other snaps, words like ice.

But I don't think the other is accustomed to taking orders, because she doesn't listen. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't want this."

The brunette's eyes narrow and her grip around the metal jar tightens. She doesn't meet the other girl's gaze. "Doesn't change anything. It happened. I'm not interested in helping you clear your conscience."

"I didn't know."

"You knew it was dangerous, sending him in there. You knew it, but you did it anyway. Guess it didn't matter, so long as you got your inside man."

It's dark, but I think I see the sunshine girl's eyes shimmer. "That's not fair. We're in the middle of a war-"

"We're always at war!" bursts the brunette, restraining herself just enough to keep hold of the jar. Her head whips back, sending her braids across her neck. "Ever since we came to the ground, war is all we've been a part of. So don't use it as an excuse. You are responsible for this, and there's nothing you can say to make that any less true." She twists to face me again and throws the words over her shoulder. "If my brother dies, it's on you, Clarke."

I watch the girl as she finally turns away and disappears under the hatch, leaving me with this other girl, who seems to lose her coldness the moment the hatch closes. She steps up to me and I feel the growl before I even command it. When she tries forcing the lip of the jar to my mouth, I jerk back and snarl.

The muscle in her jaw feathers and she lowers her arm. Her large eyes bore into me, and I can almost imagine what she would like as a child. But there is nothing _child_ about this girl before me. "You're not giving up that easily, big brother," she says. Then in the time it takes me to blink, the jar is at my lips and water is going down my throat. I try to spit it out but the girl clamps one covered hand around my mouth, forcing me to swallow. "I need you, so you're going to fight this, do you hear me? You are going to fight, and you are going to win."

It doesn't sound like a question, but an order.

* * *

The brunette is telling me about the stars when a new pain hits.

Or maybe it's just the same pain amplified. But it comes on suddenly, screaming in my ears and slicing through my head. Some sound bursts from me but I barely hear it over the pound of my heart and an impenetrable buzzing that erupts from somewhere, a million flies with claws that rake from my head to the base of my neck. They twist and weave down my spine, setting every nerve on fire.

Then the pain is everywhere.

It shudders through me, rattling my organs until I think they'll impale themselves on my ribs. It seems to last forever, and someone's cry wheedles its way past the cotton in my ears. I feel my body go limp at the same time hands are on me, touching my face, brushing back my hair, but I don't have the control over my own limbs to push them away. My wrists come free of the restraints and my back meets the floor. Sweat freezes at the bite of metal. It's like cool water on aching teeth, and I try to move away from it, but something else pins me down.

I open my eyes to look, but all I see is red, draped over my eyes so thickly I can't make anything beyond it out.

 _"Bel . . . my . . ."_ Words come to me in chipped pieces I try without success to put back together. _"Oc . . . via! Get my M . . .om."_

I blink rapidly, and for a moment the crimson waters recede, and I see the sunshine girl piercing through the red. But then those waters swell and crash over me once more, hiding her from view. Back and forth it goes. The world turns glitchy and unfocused, until I make an effort not to look at all. Brilliant spokes of pain shoot through my temples like a small lightning storm, hailing at the back of my lids.

I stop trying to understand the shattered words spoken somewhere overhead. The floor jostles beneath me, and each movement loosens another bolt of pain. They strike through the corners of skull, burning, burning, burning.

Then the rattling starts again. My back arches. Despite my efforts, my eyes shoot open and the red retreats. The blonde girl is bent over me, face close. When her gaze shifts up to mine, I can see it. The maelstrom of fear there, torrential and desperate, and I know.

My death will not hurt this sunshine girl. It will break her completely.

* * *

I don't know how much time passes. A second. Eternity. There's an endlessness to pain that makes me wish I could pry myself apart and force it from me. But I can't do anything except lie on the floor that's grown warm now. The floor continues to jostle and those hands are still exploring my face, pulling back my eyes, opening my mouth. There's bursts of clarity that drill through the haze, making everything crystal before steaming up again.

"You said three days, Clarke!" says the brunette whose name I can't call from the dark. "It's barely been two! What's happening?"

A flash of light strikes and I shut my eyes against it.

"It must be because of the Ark," says the blonde, and something touches my face. It's cold and I flinch away from it. "Like I said before; he metabolizes it faster than the grounders."

"So does that mean it's worse for him?"

"I don't know, Octavia."

I lose my grip on the sliver of clarity and it flits away, lost in the fit of rattling that returns.

"He's seizing again." Someone turns my head and more bolts explode, brighter than the rest. My corneas are on fire, my insides ash. A choked sound comes from me and my hands clench so hard my nails dig into my palms. I can't even feel it.

"Tie off his arm," a different voice says, one I don't recognize.

Somehow, the blink of clarity is back, pulling me to the surface once more no matter how much I want to dive deep inside myself, to a place the pain can't reach. Someone is moving my limbs and I try to fight them, but the drums at my temples are too much. The lightning storm is a hurricane now, electrifying me.

"What is that?" I think I hear the brunette ask.

"It'll help break the fever."

I grind my teeth so hard I'm sure I'll break my jaw. My back moves of its own volition, slamming against the floor again. The pain in my head piques to an excruciating degree and this time I let myself scream. I was wrong before. _This_ is death. It is chewing me up and spitting me back out, like it can't decide if it wants me or not. I hope it does.

 _"His pulse is weakening . . ."_ someone says, and I don't care who it belongs to anymore.

 _"Move out of the way!"_ shouts another.

 _"Bel, come back to us!"_

Shadows rise up, and I suddenly have a moment of clarity, so crystalline I can feel its presence, like a light burrowed somewhere deep inside. I have only to cleave myself apart to reach it. There's a solidness there. A truth dancing in and out of my grasp and I grab hold before it can slip through my fingers.

 _My name is Bellamy Blake._

Then the darkness surges and that light goes out.


	8. Breaker

**Okay, guys. I know I am so behind on my other fanfictions but that is because I am stuck. I'm not stopping, I've just hit a wall. So if anyone has any ideas as to what you want to see in Because of You please tell me because I am struggling. Also, from here onward, this fic will be written from Clarke's POV. Starting now. Please review!**

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

Those numbers overwhelm the world. I count along with my mom's compressions, feeling everything dim to an agonizing crawl. I watch it all, playing out before me, trying to find the switch that'll turn this nightmare off. There is none, and a silence open up inside me, so deep I can't see the bottom.

 _But it's not over yet._

"Bel, don't do this!" Octavia screams, on her knees now by Bellamy's head. She'd shoved me out of the way the moment his chest stilled. I don't remember standing but I am, at his feet, staring out at the scene before me.

I feel the silence in me expand and contract, filling up my the cavity in my chest, threatening to pull and bury the rest of me inside it. _No, he's not gone,_ a voice in mescreams. _He's not. He can't be._

 _Thirty six. Thirty seven. Thirty eight._

 _You knew how dangerous it was, but you sent him in there anyway!_ Octavia's voice is a faraway memory, but it slams into me, again and again. You are responsible for this. You are responsible. You. I can feel myself cracking, skin spiderwebbing down my arms like I'm made of porcelain. Pieces of me chip and fall away.

I clench my hands until a tingling starts in my fingers, nails carving half moons into palms. _No._ This is Bellamy. Strong, stubborn Bellamy. Giving up is not in his nature, anymore than letting him is in mine.

My eyes burn, but I don't dare blink, still standing perfectly still, gaze frozen on his face. Beads of sweat coalesce on his forehead. His usual tanned complexion is a deathly pale, making him more ghost than man. I have the mad urge to reach for him if only to prove my fingers won't cut through him like a mirage.

 _Fifty three. Fifty four. Fifty five._

Mom stops counting at sixty.

I wait for her to do something else. Start another round. Bring out the epinephrine and shoot it into his heart. But it takes me a second before I realize that we don't have any epinephrine, and another to understand my mom isn't trying to do anything else at all. That there is nothing else we can do.

And then that silence lets out a scream.

I see tears falling from Octavia's eyes and she's shaking her head. She takes my mom's place and starts compressions again, but her arms are bent and her hand placement over his chest is wrong.

"No," I think I whisper, but I can't hear my own voice. The silence inside has bled into the room, muting everything around me. So I say it louder.

"No." _No. No. No._

"Clarke." Somehow, my mom's voice breaks through the barrier and her hands are on my shoulders, fingers pressing hard into my shirt. "He's gone."

I shake my head. Because she's wrong. Bellamy can't be gone, anymore than the sky or ground can't exist. It just doesn't make sense with one less Blake among us.

 _If my brother dies, it's on you, Clarke._

I stumble back a step. Run my hands through my hair, trying to dislodge those words. That hideous, ruby red truth. There is already too much blood on my hands. It's a steady ocean surging around me. Soon I'll lose my footing, and slip beneath red waves.

 _If my brother dies, it's on you, Clarke._

"No," I repeat. Right now, it's the only word I understand. The only one I'm willing to accept.

I twist around, so fast my head spins, and scan the room, looking for something. _Anything_. This isn't it. It's not. I won't let it be.

My eyes skim over the few medical supplies clumped in a pile, the bandages I used to tend the arrow wound. There's the metal jar and a few weapons, a pair of taser rods-

My gaze snaps back to the rods, lying discarded in the far corner.

Before I can even think about it, I'm over there, snatching one up. I'm sweating but the weight in my chest is like ice, coating my bones and freezing my blood. I scramble back over to where Octavia is still doing compressions, trying to force her brother's heart to beat again.

"Move," I bark. There's no time for gentleness. No time for grief. Because grief means it's finished.

I allow her only a second to back away before my finger is on the button and I'm angling the rod straight over Bellamy. I press it, and an ivy of electricity crackles outward, dancing down the rod with a power that hisses through the air.

Then I bring the end of the rod down on Bellamy's chest.

A sickening jolt runs through the length of his body, down the very tips of his fingers, and his spine arches backwards, chest reaching up towards the pole. Then, just as quickly, he goes slack.

For a second, there's nothing. So I don't hesitate to do it again.

 _Please, Bellamy,_ everything inside me screams, louder than the snap of electricity. Louder than the roar of silence, crashing and breaking and shouting in my ears. I am a hurricane, content on tearing this world apart. _Please!_

 _I can't lose you too._

There's a gasp, and I nearly hit him again before I register the movement of his chest. That, as the seconds tick by, small breaths continue to saw between his pale lips.

Then his eyes are fluttering open, and they're suddenly looking up the ceiling. He blinks, and a a confused line appears between his brows. He doesn't try to fight his way up. His fingers are no longer curled into claws. I don't know if we should restrain him again, just in case, but I seem to have forgotten how to move.

Slowly, Bellamy's gaze sweeps to the side. Instantly, it locks on Octavia who's still crouching over him, her hand against his cheek. I'm not prepared for what comes next.

"O?"

She let's out a shaky laugh, half relief, half incredulity, and strokes his cheek. There's a smile on her face, the first I've seen in too many days. She draws her forehead to his while tears splash onto him, but he doesn't look away from her. Though still very weak, he struggles to place his own hand over hers. The band of red decorating his wrist is as brilliant as ribbon, and I know we won't be needing the shackles.

It isn't until then that I realize how badly I'm shaking.

I let the rod clatter to the floor, and the noise grabs Bellamy's attention. Those brown eyes swing over to me, and though tired, they are unmistakably clear. No Reaper, just Bellamy.

The sight yanks the air right out of my lungs and something in me snaps. It crumbles like dry timbre and I whirl away, sharply twisting on my heels. I start for the hatch.

"Clarke," Mom begins, but I sidestep her outstretched hand and clamor down the ladder. I can't move fast enough. Can't get out of here fast enough. The tremors are so bad I almost lose my grip on the rungs and fall the rest of the way.

I barely manage to make it outside and down the ramp before my legs give out and I collapse in the dirt. It's still dusted in ash, coating my hands in a fine layer of black, but I don't care. The silence is gone, replaced by a flood of relief I can't hold in anymore. The dam shatters, and I let myself do what I haven't allowed up until now.

In the company of the dead grounders I helped burn, I let myself cry.

* * *

I stay outside for as long as I dare, until the compulsion to check on Bellamy overrules my desire to stay put. I have to make certain he's okay. With my own eyes.

Upstairs, it's dark. I can tell from the sound of deep breathing, he's asleep. Worry has me measuring the evenness, ensuring there's no symptoms of fluid build up in his lungs, but they sound clear. Someone's put a bundle of cloth beneath his head and has draped a wool blanket over him. Octavia hasn't moved, and is now lying beside him, asleep on her own makeshift pillow.

I don't want to wake either of them, but I don't want to go back downstairs. It's a small comfort, being close by, in case there's any change. The rod is still on the floor where I left it. I pray I won't need it again.

I don't bother with scrounging up a blanket or pillow for myself, and just take a seat with my back against the wall, content with staying awake. I'm afraid to sleep; my nightmares are too intimately entangled with the thorns of reality. I can't escape one without cutting myself on the other.

I lean my head against the wall, keeping my eyes on Bellamy's sleeping form. I try to banish the image of his still chest and white face from my mind, but the memory does not go.

It haunts me, like a phantom.

Like a warning.

* * *

I don't remember falling asleep. But the shadows crouching in my nightmares scare me back to myself and I wake with a jolt, gaze tearing across the room, searching for the threat. _Death and blood and red eyes and-_

But the room is quiet, save for the sound of shifting movements as Octavia checks over her brother. Bellamy is still asleep, face turned toward me, and I feel myself relax. There are no monsters here.

As if hearing my thoughts, Octavia's eyes snap to me before looking away again.

There's a painful ache in my lower back and my joints pop as I make it to my feet. "How is he?"

"Fever's down," she says, voice empty and robotic. "Your Mom checked on him before leaving. Told me to tell you she'll be back this afternoon."

I nod, feeling suddenly awkward and unsure. There's been tension between Octavia and me since I sent Bellamy into Mount Weather, and has only worsened since recovering him. I can feel the strain of it, as if our friendship were made of thread. One wrong pull, and it comes undone.

I try to find the right words, but Octavia is already standing and moving toward the hatch with nothing more than a simple, "I need to see if Raven's got anything."

Before I have a chance to reply, she's ducking down descending the ladder. After a moment's hesitation, I follow her.

On the bottom floor, she slings on her pack and heads for the ramp.

"You were right," I say, before she can disappear outside. Her back is to me when she pauses, and she raises her head. I swallow. "It wasn't worth the risk."

I hear her drag in a deep breath, shoulders flexing. "You thought it was. At the time."

"I was wrong." It is a huge understatement and falls from me in a pitiful heap.

I see her hand clench into a small fist. "This isn't something he'll just be able to get over." Her tone is brusque, and those words carve into me, making it difficult to breathe. When I speak, it sounds weaker. "You think I don't know that?"

Octavia doesn't turn around. "It's hard to tell what you know these days."

I feel a cinder of anger light inside, warming against my ribs, but I push it away. "I understand you're still angry about Rubicon. I know-"

"You know," she repeats, slathering on a thick layer of sarcasm as she twists around to face me. Her lips pull up in disgust." _You know,_ and you still did it. You condemned an entire village to die. You ordered Lincoln across enemy lines. You surrendered my brother to some twisted nightmare he'll blame himself for and _you know."_

Just like that, my anger extinguishes. The ember dies. I suddenly feel hollowed out on the inside, struggling to grip onto something solid if only to keep from falling into that sea of red. "I'm sorry that I can't find a more moral way around war."

"You could at least _try_ ," Octavia snarls back. "Rather than just deciding to let Mount Weather drop a bomb on innocent people!"

"I had no choice," the words wrench from me. Their edges are barbed and I'm sure if I say them enough, they'll make my throat bleed. "The bomb would've dropped one way or the other. The only difference is that those people would've known what was coming and Lincoln's position would've been given away." A desperation leaks into my voice, one I can't quell and don't try to. She has to see. She has to understand. "The Mountain Men would keep turning men to reapers and capturing more grounders to drain for their blood. Right now they could be draining _our_ _friends_ of their blood. If I'd warned the village, everything would be ruined and those people would've died for _nothing._ "

That is what I tell myself, at least. And it's true. _It has to be true._

There's a furnace in Octavia's gaze, eyes like the blue of too-hot flames. "So that makes it okay then."

I lock my jaw, feeling my hold over this very thin thread slipping. The guilt threatens to fall and bring me to my knees. I'd let it, if it meant being crushed into dust, into nothing, where no more war and the death it brings can exist. It's enough to nearly make me wish for a life back on the Ark again. To trade the ground for order. The sky for peace. The freedom of Earth for an unstained conscience. But my wings are gone and the stars have no place for us anymore. I doubt they'd take us back if they could.

"Do you think I wanted this?" I ask softly, feeling a pressure build behind my eyes. "Do you think I want to be responsible for ending people's lives? Either way, someone dies. Either way, _something_ is on me. None of us get to survive without blood on our hands. Maybe you could do better, but I am doing _the best I can."_

Octavia's lips press into a thin, unforgiving line. "Well it's not good enough."

Without another word, she returns her back to me and I watch as she shoves the curtain over the door aside, and disappears from view.

I let out a shaky breath I hadn't known I was holding. I rest my back against the ladder, gaze falling to the floor. Choices, I figure, are like glass, strong in their own right, but still full of the potential to break. And I feel like I am standing in a river of broken choices, with no right and no wrong among them. They all lead to the same outlet anyway, and is no more an outlet than it is a graveyard.

I'll find a way to fix this later, somehow, after this war is finished and our friends are safe. _If you even make it to then_ , a tinny voice at the back of my mind whispers, but I shake it off as I turn and climb the ladder again.

At least now I know with certainty what I am willing to lose, and when I reach the top of the ladder and look over at Bellamy, only to find his brown eyes already open and fastened onto mine, those red waves become less of a burden and more of a promise.

 _No one else._


	9. Here

**Hurray! My other stories are starting to fall into place! I'm getting there. Anyway, here's the next chapter! Please review :) I love you all :')**

A tension fills the air, taut and fragile, and I'm suddenly very aware of the room. The silence. Of Bellamy's gaze burning into my face. Shadows collect under his eyes and his complexion is still pale, making his freckles stand out like splatters of dark paint against a flushed canvas. He's still lying down but the grim set of his lips suggests he wishes otherwise. There's a wariness in his features, guarded. It tells me he senses the fragility too.

Guilt rises up like a monolith inside me. Guilt and regret and relief, compounded with the desire to turn back time and stop him from going into Mount Weather. And, since I'm already entertaining such notions, maybe I'd even go further back, so I can stop the bomb before it collides with Rubicon. Find Finn before he massacres innocent villagers. Warn the 100 of the monster waiting for them in the mountain.

But wishes are just that. Wishes. And as the second's fall away with neither of us speaking, our last conversation whispers harshly over the silence.

 _You should go_.

 _I thought you hated that plan. That I'd get myself killed._

 _It's worth the risk._

I clench my teeth as the shame barrels into me, so hard my legs nearly buckle again. I swallow the slump in my throat and struggle for some kind of apology.

But Bellamy beats me to it. "Clarke." His voice is gruff from disuse.

After seeing him as he was, some vessel for a drug that made him into something he wasn't, that one word of acknowledgement derails me. There is no apology good enough. No words. I struggle for a smile I can't feel and take a step towards him. "Hey."

I see Bellamy's jaw working and his Adams Apple bobs like he doesn't know where to go from here. So I close a little more of the gap between us. "How're you feeling?"

He takes a few seconds to respond. "My head hurts," he says. "And my chest feels like it's on fire."

I nod, blinking quickly. "Yeah, that's to be expected. It should fade soon." I purse my lips and take a shaky breath, trying to sum up my courage before asking, "What do you remember last, Bellamy?"

For a second, I'm worried that I've upset him. But he just shakes his head a little, then winces. His eyes flutter closed. "It's . . . It's like waking up from a dream. Some pieces are coming back but it's slow." He lets out a frustrated sigh.

I swallow, and risk another step. I don't want to goad the subject and stand in silence.

"Octavia said Lincoln was all right," he says slowly, eyes opening again. "Was she telling the truth?"

At least in this, I can reassure him. "Lincoln's fine." For now, my words seem to convey.

His tight expression turns relieved and gives a meager nod. Another handful of moments slip by us, but I'm not eager to fill them. he's alive. Right now that is enough.

"I heard you talking to Octavia," he says.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Sorry if we woke you."

"I didn't understand all of it and I don't know what happened while I was . . . " a haunted look crowds into his eyes but he blinks it back. "But it wasn't your fault. She shouldn't blame you."

An incredulous sound bursts from me, like a scoff and a choke, because he doesn't know. He doesn't know I left his sister at Rubicon. He doesn't know of the bodies that still litter the ruin and the families that will spend the rest of their lives mourning for them.

"I sent you in there, Bellamy."

"You asked me to go. I'm the one who made the choice, Clarke."

"I shouldn't have let you. It wasn't worth it. Seeing you like that . . ." I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to stop tears. I let myself break down once. I'm not doing it again. I glance away, feeling Bellamy's eyes on me.

Then there's a sharp intake of breath and my gaze snaps back to him. But he's not looking at my face anymore. His eyes have fallen down, down to my neck. Id forgotten about the ugly fetter of bruises there, blossoms of blue and purple marring the skin. I quickly pull my jacket tight, shutting them off from view. "Bellamy-"

But his eyes have gone wide. There's a clarity in them, and I know another piece of his broken memory is coming back, nestling into place. I can almost hear the click. "Clarke . . ." I hear real fear in his voice. "Tell me I didn't . . ."

I shake my head. "That wasn't you, Bellamy."

But it's as if he hasn't heard me. He raises his hands and looks at them, like they're foreign to him. I watch a quiver start in his fingers, until both hands are shaking.

On instinct, I crouch down and reach for them.

When my skin touches his he flinches away from me, like the contact has burned him. "Don't touch me, Clarke," he snaps, and then winces at the harshness in his voice. "You . . . I- I attacked you. I tried to . . ." The raw pain in his eyes is unmistakable as the full realization hits him. "I tried to kill you."

"A Reaper tried to kill me," I amend. "You didn't know what you were doing."

But he tries to pull himself up. "I knew what I wanted, Clarke. I . . . wanted you dead. I wanted to be the one to do it."

"You didn't."

"You think that makes me feel better?" he asks. "This close, Clarke. I came this close. I was uncontrollable. An animal. A . . . A monster."

"Bellamy-"

His eyes snatch mine, loud and accusatory. "Why didn't you kill me? Why did you let it get so far?"

I stare at him and give a small shake of my head. how is it not obvious? "Because I couldn't."

He stares at me and I can't tell where there's more anger or fear there. "Why not?"

I shake my head. Clench my hands in my lap. "I already told you. I can't lose you too, Bellamy."

"What? Even if it kills you?" he asks. "What if I'd escaped and gotten to Octavia? What if I'd _killed_ -" He abruptly cuts himself off, or maybe he can't even say it. He glances away fro me. "I never figured you the selfish type, Clarke."

It stings, and I try my best not to let it show. He looks about to say something else, but I intercept him before he gets a chance. "Do you honestly think Octavia would ever forgive me if I gave up on you so easily? If I didn't do everything I could just to spare you your guilt?" I take a shaky breath and look at him sternly, willing my voice not to crack. "We all need you, Bellamy. And maybe that's selfish. But it's also true. Dying . . . it's the easy way out."

"So we should keep going, even if it means hurting other people? Innocent people?" He shakes his head, disregarding the pain it brings. "You might be fine with that, Clarke, but I'm not."

It's like a slap to the face and I actually move back, as if his words pack a physical blow. His expression softens as the realization of what he's just said registers.

My calm abandons me and I pull myself to my feet. "What was I supposed to do, Bellamy?" I ask, well aware of my own voice rising. "Just let you die? I did. I watched my mom try to resuscitate you. I watched as Octavia was shouting and begging for you to come back. And all I could think about was the last thing I told you. That it was worth the risk. So I'm sorry I didn't do the selfless thing or the right thing _by you_ , but you're here and you're alive and I am _not going to apologize for that."_

I drag in a big breath and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The pressure that's been building since the confrontation with Octavia worsens and I twist away so Bellamy won't see the pain and misinterpret it.

"There were two boys," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. I look back at him again, but his gaze has fallen to his lap, staring without seeing. "Just kids. I took two kids from their home, Clarke. They're being used as human blood bags because of me."

My anger is suddenly back, fueled by the guilt I see in his face. The self-loathing I recognize too well. The sight washes my heart in a quiet fire and I look at Bellamy, hard. "They're being used as blood bags because of Mount Weather. Because someone in that mountain decided their freedom was worth the cost of innocent lives."

"That doesn't change the fact that if I just hadn't _been_ _here,_ Clarke, that they would be okay," he says, and I simmer at the brokenness in his voice. At the defeated tone he uses. So unlike Bellamy. "That everyone I took into that mountain would be home with their families right now. Safe."

My anger mounts, and I clench my teeth together, trying to pick my words with careful precision. "You're right," I deadpan after consideration, and he flinches. "You're right, if you hadn't been there, those boys would be fine. All those people would be back home. But the same applies for me, too." I give a slight shake of my head. "If I hadn't been here, you wouldn't have gone into Mount Weather to begin with and those boys would still be okay. If I hadn't been here, . . . Finn would probably still be alive. If I hadn't been here, maybe he wouldn't have massacred a village," I manage to say, and I'm surprised my voice doesn't crack. "I know this game, Bellamy. I play it every day, and I'm very good at it. So listen to me when I tell you that yes, your actions were wrong. But they weren't _yours_ , not really. You aren't the monster in this story, Bellamy."

"You weren't there," he says quietly, still not looking at me like he can't bear it.

So I say the one thing that will make him. "No, neither were you here, when I turned my back on a village I knew was about to be bombed and left, even while I thought Octavia could still be inside."

Bellamy's eyes shoot up and he looks at me confusedly. "That . . . Clarke, that doesn't sound like you."

But when I don't say anything, when I don't deny it, his gaze slowly hardens. The brokenness in it is still there, but it's all edges now, wicked points trailed on me. He knows I'm telling the truth and when the reality of that hits him, he spits through his teeth, "I can't believe you."

The look there, the _betrayal_ , hurts more than the bruises on my neck and it takes all my effort not to crumble beneath the weight of his gaze. "You aren't the only one who's become a stranger to themselves, Bellamy."

He shakes his head, looking almost crazed. "Why? I-I trusted you with her."

"I didn't think I had a choice." If I die in this war and am given the luxury of a burial, I think those words would be a sufficient summary of my life. Not my whole life, but the parts that mattered the most.

"You didn't have a choice?" Bellamy repeats, disbelief etched in every line of his features.

I swallow. By this point, I have my answer memorized. "If I'd warned anybody, they would've told the others and Lincoln would be compromised. Any chance of getting our friends back would be gone and every grounder being drained would consequentially die. So I had to choose."

Bellamy glares at me. "Between my sister and the mission."

"Between the possibility of losing one life and the certainty of losing hundreds more." I hold his gaze for as long as I can until finally, I focus on something else. Something simple, like a torn corner of Bellamy's woolen blanket. I feel as if I'm on a very narrow cliff, each choice pushing me closer and closer to the edge with nothing to cling to. Even if by some miracle I manage to hold on long enough to see the end of this war, I'm still on this cliff made of my mistakes. And there is no way down.

"I . . . I need some time, Clarke," Bellamy says slowly, and though there's some anger in his voice, I sense there's something else. A bitter understanding he wishes he didn't see. I can feel his gaze lingering on my neck. "Time to think. Alone."

I nod slowly and try not to stare back at him as I start for the hatch again. But I can't help looking when I stop to climb down the ladder. "If we win this war," I tell him, my eyes meet his from across the room, "you'll be the one to free those people, Bellamy."

"What, so they can forgive me?" he asks dryly.

My voice turns soft. "So that you can forgive yourself."


End file.
